Nine Times Dean Needed Sam Part 5: Really Cold
by PADavis
Summary: Happy Birthday, Mad Server! This is one of nine stories by nine authors in which Dean needs Sam because that's what she likes. Dean really needs Sam in this one because its freezing. And there's a lake. Complete in two chapters. Rated T for language.
1. A Watery Tart

Nine Times Dean Needed Sam - Part 5: Really Cold.

Disclaimer: No ownership.

Posted: March 8, 2010

Fellow Players: Onyx Moonbeam, Supernoodle, Sidjack, the lovely Liafrombrazil, Soncnica, Hanson's Angel, IheartSam7, and Enkidu07.

A/N: Happy Birthday to the fabulous Mad Server. I love you the absolute mostest which is why I wrote this so last minute and didn't, ah, get it beta'd. Ahem.

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The crossbow quarrel buried itself to the fletching in the Nixie's chest. Her body collapsed into itself as pale watery ichor seeped from the wound. What tissue was left dissolved into a froth of foam on the open surface of the lake, until even that vanished.

Dean braced himself on his elbows, watching the show from the safety of the ice. A slow smile stretched his chapped lips. _Damn, he was good_. He wasn't the first hunter she'd attacked, but he might be the only one that never let go of his weapon. Dad had drummed that into him long before the nixie dragged him by his ankle up the shoreline, smashing him gleefully into fuking rocks and trees, scree and driftwood and more fucking rocks…

She'd finally spun him like a top out on the frozen lake. When he finally slid to a stop, dizzy enough to puke, she strutted toward him, dancing on the ice and water, an ice blue grin revealing grotesque pointed teeth. She was so sure of herself—right up until he ganked her. Guess it never occurred to her that there was a crossbow hidden under his arm.

He'd taught that watery bitch a lesson about messing with Winchesters. He was _really_ good.

He rolled to one side and ran a hand down his shredded flannel and teeshirt. Scrapes and bruises made him hiss a little, but nothing was bleeding, and after flexing his arms and legs, nothing was broken either. Dean was going to be sore as hell, but all things considered, that was a good hunt.

He just wished Sam had been there to see it. Little bro might never fully appreciate how totally awesome that shot was.

Speaking of his ginormous brother… Dean craned his head around and brushed snowflakes off his lashes with the back of one hand. The lake shore fifty yards behind him and south was devoid of sasquatches. Sam'd might have got stuck calming down the panicky family. That or the nixie had travelled at supersonic speed. Either was equally likely.

Dean turned his head north and grinned stupidly. He knew the nixie had dragged him toward the main road and the Impala but he couldn't be more than a mile away from the car. Man, this was a great hunt! He got his hands down on the ice and pushed up.

_Snap. Crackle. Pop. _

Cracks radiated away from his hands toward the open water at the center of the lake. The ice underneath him groaned. _Crap_. Either he was going to drift away on an ice floe or he was going in the drink. His mouth was suddenly very dry.

He reached behind him, scraping at the ice until his gloves found enough purchase to help him start inching toward the shore. He pushed again, straining until his butt was up in the air and he could get his knees underneath him. Grimacing, he blew on his cupped hands and shook them as he scanned behind him for a glimpse of his brother through the heavy snowfall.

Because it really would be a great time for Sam to arrive. Moving slowly and carefully, head down, Dean worked his way toward shore on his hands and knees. The ice held, but his breath caught every time it groaned and creaked underneath him.

This would be actually be the perfect time for Sam to arrive. He could probably braid his hair into a rope and toss it out like a life line. Or go the car and get their rope and toss it, but the picture of Sam doing a Rapunzel to rescue him made him laugh out loud, breath frosting around him.

One hand forward, one knee, other hand… he'd stopped paying much attention, humming Metallica. A sharp crack and his knees broke through the ice. He scrambled for a hold even as he started to slip backwards, his legs dragging him into the water up to his waist, then his chest.

Everything tried to shut down. Nothing worked, not his legs, his lungs, even his eyes were frozen. Someone was talking in his ear, saying something like "Move. Move. Move. Move. Move. Move." After what seemed like hours, he realized that he was talking to himself, lips barely moving.

He had to get out of the water. Now. The crossbow. It was still in his hand. Of course it was. Never let go. Kicking wildly, he lunged up, near panic spurring him up and out of the water, catching at the ice with the butt of the crossbow. Once his torso was on the ice, he drew in heaving breaths, trying to wait out the shivers racking his body.

The cold water encasing his legs felt like it was sucking the life out of him. And it was, literally. He had to move. Hands numb and clumsy, Dean fumbled out a quarrel from its clip on the bow and drove it into the ice ahead of him with all of his might. The point buried itself in the ice, his lip curling as it reminded him of the arrow sliding into nixie's ice cold flesh. Holding the shaft, he dragged himself forward until he could catch the quarrel in the crook of his left elbow. His hips were out of the water.

There was one more quarrel. Panting, he unclipped it from the bow. He could use them like ice picks, drag himself to one then the next until he reached the shore. He rolled to his left, brought his arm high over his head, and drove in the second quarrel.

The noise this time was deafening. Short and sharp like a rifle shot. The ice beneath his chest disappeared, slam-dunking him back into the freezing water.

The shock of re-entering the water drove the air out of his lungs in a rush, leaving him light headed, left arm flailing for a purchase no longer there. He sucked in a lungful of air, another. And here he thought he couldn't get any colder. But he was alive. Blinking slowly, he tried to find out why. He finally focused on his right hand, still holding the second quarrel, secure in the ice.

He brought his left arm up, hooked the crossbow over the arrow and locked his hands together. He just needed to hold on until Sam found him. Because if Sam didn't find him, Dean was screwed. And if Sam didn't find him soon, Dean was really screwed.

Where the hell was Sam?

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Please read chapter 2


	2. One Big Fish

More angsty needy Dean for the birthday girl, Mad Server.

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Where the hell was Dean?

Luck, not good planning, had them arrive at the lake just as the nixie lured a six year old away from his family. What should have been a pleasant winter day skating with friends on the local lake had turned into a nightmare. Sam was shouting a binding spell as he ran forward, pushing startled witnesses further up the shore; Dean rocketed around the families and slid onto the ice. He snagged the boy out of the monster's arms and practically tossed him into Sam's.

The binding was short lived. The nixie recovered and slipped away up the lake and ice to the north, Dean hot on her heels. Sam turned to hand the boy back to his parents.

He hadn't seen Dean since.

The snow that had threatened all day began to fall, quickly reducing visibility around the lake, flattening ambient sounds with its soft hushing. Sam ran at an easy pace, using his long legs to jump jumbles of rocks and wood dotting the shoreline. He called Dean's name as he scouted the shoreline, watching with increasing frustration as the snow covered any possible signs of his brother's passage. After ten minutes, he he tried calling, but Dean's cell went straight to voice mail. Huffing out a cloud of white breath, Sam picked up his pace.

The car couldn't have been more than a mile ahead when a noise as sharp and loud as a rifle shot rang out. Sam ducked instinctively, spinning toward the sound, lost his footing on a patch of ice, and ended up on his ass, staring at the lake as echoes reverberated across the water. That wasn't a rifle. That was… ice cracking. His stomach tried to drop to his feet. If Dean was in the water… Sam was back on his feet and jogging south in a heartbeat, desperately scanning the lake until he finally saw something low and dark right on the surface.

Sam was on the ice running, skidding and yelling Dean's name, before he realized he'd started to move. Long arms wind-milling, Sam lurched to a stop twenty feet from his brother. Gingerly testing each step with his toe, then his heel, he came to a complete stop when the ice underneath his foot seemed to shift. They were still a good seven to eight feet apart.

"Dean? Hold on. Just hold on. I'm almost there."

Dean's head came up, his eyes black against colorless skin. "Was hoping you'd g-g-get here b-before…"

Sam eased down on his hands and knees. "Before what?" He jammed the toe of one shoe deep into a good sized irregularity in the ice. "Dean? Before what?"

"D-don' wanna be be… p-popsicle."

"You won't be. Don't move until I tell you, then kick."

"Not sure legs're w-workin'." Dean looked over his shoulder at the water, then back at Sam, brows drawn over his nose. "M-might not have legs anymore."

"Don't move, Dean." Flat on his stomach, Sam stretched out slowly, one foot anchoring him, the other propelling him minutely forward until he could wrap the fingers of his right hand tightly around Dean's bone white wrist. He looked up in triumph just as Dean's head drooped, his forehead rolling on one snow covered sleeve.

"Dean—you do not get to pass out!" He had to fumble the knife off his belt left handed and use teeth to open it. "Wake up right now. I need help to get you out of there." Desperation and adrenaline fueled his arm and he easily drove the blade of the knife up to its hilt in the ice back by his hip. "Dean! I need you to kick on three. Help me!"

Dean slowly raised his head, vacant eyes tracking left and right. "Sssammy?"

No more than a whisper but the relief was so great he sighed out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. "Yeah, man. Kick on three. Ready?" He didn't wait, just shouted, "One. Two. Three—kick!" and pulled back, using the knife and his secured foot to pull himself backwards.

"Dean. KICK!"

Dean strained forward, the tendons on his neck and jaw standing out in high relief. For a few seconds, Sam was afraid he wasn't going to be strong enough to pull Dean out, that maybe Dean was too waterlogged, too heavy, Sam should've called 911, he should've… and with a thump, he was back on his ass, Dean having popped out onto the ice like a hooked fish, sliding forward until he was almost on top of Sam.

Sam stayed there for a second, panting, grinning like an idiot, until a groaning noise from the ice brought his head up, eyes wide. Sam backed up until he could stand, then headed for shore, towing Dean after him like a sled until they were safe on shore.

"Dean! Hey!" Sam pulled his unresisting brother up, pulled the crossbow out of his hand, and started to tug at the arms of his jacket. "Gonna call you Flipper. Or Rosebud. Give me your coat."

Teeth chattering, Dean slapped at Sam's hands. "Why'm I'm wet?"

"The Nixie—the water? Remember?" Sam pulled Dean to his feet and steadied him.

Dean swayed, hazy eyes unfocused. "C-c-crappy beach. No chicks."

"Come on, I gotta get you warm."

"You cold?" Dean shrugged off the sodden coat and offered it.

Sam laughed. "How 'bout we switch?" Sam blew on his fingers, then ripped off Dean's sodden flannel shirt, pushing Dean's hands down and out of the way as he manipulated his vaguely protesting brother out of his wet clothes and boots. Sam dropped his coat and stripped his own shirts off. He used a long sleeved Henley to briskly rub Dean's skin dry and red.

"Need m-my 'clothes, Rrrrap-p-unzell. S'c-cold."

"Coming up." Sam toed off his shoes and stripped off more clothes, dressing his brother in a hoodie, the sweatpants Sam'd worn under his jeans, and one of his pairs of wool socks. Dancing with the cold, Sam yanked on everything remaining. Once he'd pulled Dean's arms into the dry coat and zipped and buttoned him in, Sam scanned the ground around them. Gathering the wet clothes into a pile, Sam glanced fleetingly toward where his knife was still stuck in the snow. He shook his head. Except for Dean's wallet and car keys, everything else could be picked up later.

"Come on, bro. Back to the car."

"Where izzit? I leggo… let g-go of it." Dean's teeth were chattering so loudly it was hard to understand him. "I nnnever le'go." His brother held up his empty hands. "Never l-l-lose m'weapon. Dad'll kill me."

Sam snatched up the crossbow and showed it to him. "It's right here, Dean. You didn't let go. I took it." Sam put it in Dean's outstretched hand but it slipped out of nerveless fingers. Dean looked up at Sam with wounded eyes. "Can't hold it. What's wrong with m-me?"

"You're cold, that's all, really cold. I'll hold it for now, okay?" Sam picked up the bow again and hooked it to his belt. "Come on, back to the car." Sam pointed Dean north. "We have to walk for a few minutes."

"G-g-got no legs."

"Yes, you do." Sam wrapped an arm around his brother's back and tugged him forward. "You need to walk to warm up."

Dean staggered at first, shivering so hard Sam thought his teeth would rattle in sympathy. Dean seemed alert, his head up, and while he wasn't walking anything near a straight line, he was moving as fast as his stumbling feet would allow.

After his fifth or sixth course correction, Sam caught his brother staring at him. "Dean? How're you doing?"

"I don't have any shoes." Dean lowered his gaze to his socked feet.

"That's right. Your boots and socks were soaked through."

"Oh." Dean was silent for a few minutes. "Where're we goin'?"

"To the Impala."

"Good." Dean ambled for a few more minutes, muttering about beaches and snow bunnies. He stopped suddenly and thumped Sam's shoulder with useless hands. "Where's… I had…have to go back."

"Your crossbow is right here on my belt." Sam held it out.

"When'd I let g-go? Never let go. Damn nixie didn't know what hit her. Dragged me the fuck all over the lake but I held on."

"You always hold on. You did a great job. Come on, we need to keep walking."

Dean lurched forward. "D-d-didn't do a great j.. job. Lost weapon." He held up his empty hands. "Leggo. Da-Dad taught me better than that."

Sam wrapped an arm around Dean's shoulders, pulling him closer. "Dean, its okay. You didn't let go of the weapon."

Dean brought his head up. "I d-did! It's gone."

Sam winced at the tears on Dean's cheeks and his hitched breath. "Look, Dean, see? The bow…" but Dean didn't listen, wrenching himself loose and stood panting, barely upright.

Sam grabbed his biceps. "Look at me. Look at me." Dean shook his head. Sam gave him a little shake. "Listen to me then. You didn't lose the weapon. You gave it to me to keep safe after the hunt. You hear me? _You gave it to me._ I'm taking care of it."

Dean wouldn't meet his eyes. "But Dad…"

He was going to break Sam's heart. John had been dead for a year and a half. "Dad won't be angry, I promise."

Dean snorted. "That's a good one." He took a deep breath. "Like you ever knew how _not_ to make Dad angry."

Sam chuckled and got his arm back around Dean's shoulders. "Yeah, well, he won't be angry this time because you gave the weapon to me, and Dad knows I'll take care of it."

"Sure?"

"Positive."

Dean looked up at that. "Thanks, Sammy."

"You're welcome. Now, let's get moving." Standing on his toes, Sam concentrated ahead. "I think I can see the parking lot."

Dean took one step. "Sam?"

"Yeah?" He tugged at Dean's arm again.

"I, uh, think… f-feel like shit."

Sam caught Dean just as his legs gave out, ducking to drape his big brother over one broad shoulder, staggering a bit under the weight. "I got it." He walked for five minutes before he could see the Impala in the distance. He was trying to remember how many blankets were in the trunk when his brother's muffled voice came from the region of Sam's waist.

"Where's your coat?"

He panted out a laugh. "Tell you later. Little busy right now."

Another few minutes and they reached the perimeter of the visitor's center lot and a large wooden bench. Bending over, he carefully settled Dean on it.

"Sam—d-do you know where we are?"

"I know exactly where we are." He brushed snow off the bench with his hands and helped Dean lie down. "I'm going to get the car." He bolted for the car.

Dean didn't fully wake up until Sam was lowering him carefully into a warm bath, and when he did, he came up fighting, arms swing and legs thrashing.

"What the hell?" Wild eyed, he rolled his head. "Lemme g-g-go. Sam!"

"Dean, calm down." Sam clamped down on Dean's shoulders and dragged his legs back over the edge of the tub. "You have to keep your arms and legs out of the water."

"D-don' wanna be in the water! Nixie… the nixie, she's here, Sam. We've got to…"

"The nixie's dead. You killed it. Dean, you're breathing too fast. You've got to calm down or you could have a heart attack."

"Heart attack?"

"You remember the last one?"

"S-s-sucked."

"So calm down. Breathe in, one, two, breath out, one, two. You can do that."

Squinting, Dean observed the room. "'M'I underwater?"

"No. That's it, breath out slowly. Breathe in…"

"F-feels like underwater. Air's all wet."

"That's because you splashed most of the bathwater onto me. I'm going to refill the tub. Just hold still." Sam adjusted the water then dragged a towel over his hair and down his arms. After a few minutes, he found Dean's green eyes intently focused on him. "You feeling warmer?"

"Yeah. You okay?"

"I'm warming up just fine. You need a few more minutes, and then I'll get you into bed with some hot water bottles. You'll feel much better."

"Hate the b-bottles. Always leak. Don' wanna be wet anymore."

"Fine, but you know what that means, right?"

"Be fine."

"Body to body contact. Just 'till your temperature's closer to normal."

"Don' wanna spoon."

Sam smiled. "It's that or leaky hot water bottles."

Dean sighed and leaned back, eyelids fluttering. His breathing slowed and just as Sam thought he was asleep, one eye cracked open. Dean might be exhausted but he could still glare.

"Wear socks. Your feet're always really cold."

"So says Freezer Boy." Sam brushed a hand over his forehead. "Blanket time."

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Thanks for reading. I hope you'll review.

A/N: You probably already guessed, my little Mad Server, that this is what I was writing.


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